Archive for May 2009

Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town – May 31

May 31st, 2009 — 10:34pm

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

-E. E. Cummings

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In Just- – May 30

May 31st, 2009 — 10:32pm

in Just-
spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles       far       and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far       and       wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and



balloonMan       whistles

-E. E. Cummings

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Parting – May 29

May 29th, 2009 — 3:45pm

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

-Emily Dickinson

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In The End – May 28

May 29th, 2009 — 3:45pm

And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

-Abraham Lincoln

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A Foolish Consistency – May 27

May 27th, 2009 — 9:35pm

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

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The Far Field – May 26

May 26th, 2009 — 9:24pm

I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.

-Theodore Roethke

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God’s Garden – May 25

May 25th, 2009 — 10:50pm

God looked around His garden
And He found an empty place.
He then looked down upon this earth
And saw your tired face.
He put His arms around you
And lifted you to rest.
God’s garden must be beautiful;
He always takes the best.
He knew that you were suffering.
He knew you were in pain.
He knew that you would never
Get well on earth again.
He saw the road was getting rough,
And the hills were hard to climb.
So He closed your weary eyelids,
And whispered “Peace be thine”.
It broke our heart to lose you,
But you did not go alone.
For part of us went with you
The day God called you home.


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The Map – May 24

May 24th, 2009 — 10:37pm

Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
Along the fine tan sandy shelf
is the land tugging at the sea from under?

The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still.
Labrador’s yellow, where the moony Eskimo
has oiled it. We can stroke these lovely bays,
under a glass as if they were expected to blossom,
or as if to provide a clean cage for invisible fish.
The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
-the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

Mapped waters are more quiet than the land is,
lending the land their waves’ own conformation:
and Norway’s hare runs south in agitation,
profiles investigate the sea, where land is.
Are they assigned, or can the countries pick their colors?
-What suits the character or the native waters best.
Topography displays no favorites; North’s as near as West.
More delicate than the historians’ are the map-makers’ colors.

-Elizabeth Bishop

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I Thank You God – May 23

May 23rd, 2009 — 1:31pm

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of allnothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-E. E. Cummings

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Caught As We Are – May 22

May 22nd, 2009 — 4:14pm

Caught As We Are

Caught as we are in the human condition —

Subject to vices variously begun —
in curiosity, from nature, or malaise.

Hungry for joy and fed less than our hunger

Charitable when we can save ourselves
from more involvement than we know how to bear.

Simple in our silences, made intricate by vocabularies.
Greedy because we were all once children.

Forgoing because we have read dreams and visions
that do not come to us when we lay the book by.

Loving in desperation, in fear of loneliness.

Begetting in the arsons and Olympics of first love
or in the habituated rutting of the long bed
the children that sadden us to an uneasy tolerance.

Afraid of death in our dying and liberated
only partially by the partial loss of ignorance.

Eager for friendships from which we may demand
what we ourselves give with two motives, if at all.

Suspected by States for our best intuitions.

Solemn at funerals but glad to have outlived
one other as proof that we are, after all, right.

Liars because we must live in what seems possible.

Fools because we lie, and fools again for assuming
the possible to be any more likely than the impossible.

Faithless because our houses are destroyable but not our fears.

Brave because we dare not stop to think. Proud
because we are wrong. Wrathful because we are powerless.

Envious because we are uncertain. Lazy because we were born.

Avaricious because we are afraid. Gluttonous
because bellies are a mother to warm and assure us.

Murderous and adulterous because opportunity and energy
will sometimes be added to motive. Ungrateful
because gratitude is a debt, and because it is easier
to betray our benefactors than to await new benefactions.

Religious because it is dark at night, and because
we have been instructed, and because it is easier to obey
than to believe our senses or to learn to doubt them
exhaustively. Sad because we are as we are,
time-trapped, and because our images of ourselves
and the facts of ourselves wake at night and bicker
and lay bets with one another, with us as the stakes.

Then moved to pity at last because we hear and are saddened

Nearly beautiful in the occasions of our pity not of
ourselves. Nearly affectionate when we are free of pain.

Caught as we are in these and our other conditions —

Which include a distaste for the littleness of our motives,
and, therefore, some wish to live toward some reality.

Terrified by realities. Addicted to evasions. Daring, perhaps
once, to look into the mirror and see and not look away.

Beginning again, then, with those who share with us and
with whom we share the sorrows of the common failure.

Fumbling at last to the language of a sympathy
that can describe, and that will be, we are persuaded,
sufficiently joy when we find in one another its idioms.

Caught as we are in these defining conditions —

I wish us the one fact of ourselves that is inexhaustible
and which, therefore, we need not horde nor begrudge.

Let mercy be its name till its name be found.

And wish that to the mercy that is possible because it takes
nothing from us and may, therefore, be given indifferently,
there be joined the mercy that adds us to one another.

-John Ciardi

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